Warmth in the Cold
by Harta
Summary: [BBC Sherlock] On yet another case, Sherlock and John find themselves in the middle of a snowy mountain. Sherlock, not wearing enough winter clothes, is freezing, though being the stubborn consultant detective that he is, refuses to admit it. Who else would be there to help if not John Watson? (fluff, can be interpreted as platonic or romantic)


**A/N: **Reuploaded from my AO3 account (also with the username Harta, in case any of you are wondering :P)

What can I say? I love the chemistry between Sherlock and John, whether it be platonic or romantic. It's up to you to interpret in which direction this story is going!

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**Warmth in the Cold**

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Sometimes Sherlock was just impossible.

Just plain _impossible_ that John felt like throwing up his hands and screaming.

Actually, that was exactly what this certain Watson did. He threw up his hands and screamed.

"Sherlock! Look at me."

Sherlock would not look.

"Sherlock! Listen to me!"

Sherlock would not give a reaction that he listened.

"For God's sake Sherlock, you're going to _die _here if you continue this!" John tried again, to no success.

Ah, the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. It was winter, and the pair were at the mountains: snowy, _snowing,_ and just plain icy cold. They now resided in a cave, with no fire since Sherlock said that the smoke would give away their position and destroy any available clue or evidence, and John being frozen to the bone and shaking madly.

He felt like it was just a couple more minutes before he turned into a John-sickle. He wondered how he'd taste like.

Not that he was worried too much about himself. Yes, he was worried, but at least he had his thick fur coat with him, warming him if only a little. It was Sherlock that he was worried about.

The only consultant detective was clad in only his coat, pants, boots, and gloves. Most of his winter gear—his _important_ winter gear—were at the little wooden motel miles away from the mountain. And yes, _only _his coat. Sherlock was wearing nothing more underneath to protect his chest.

When they heard news that the suspect of their current case had made a run for the mountains, Sherlock was too excited and thrilled that he nearly ran out of their motel room wearing nothing but pants. John had chased after him, throwing clothes at his friend with worry, telling him to just stop for a _couple seconds_ to dress properly. But no, Sherlock had insisted, not a second could be wasted in such a small and boring problem such as _clothes._

It was like the time they chased after the taxi on their first case together: not a moment could be wasted.

John sighed, his breath wavering in front of him. He wondered what would happen if he didn't throw all those clothes at Sherlock in all the panic. Would Sherlock actually stay in this cave, _hours _in this cave and counting, wearing nothing but a pair of pants?

John pushed the thought out of his head. God. He looked at his watch, wiping the fog away. Two hours had passed since they took their place in the cave and he pondered over how many more hours Sherlock's body could survive in such a state.

"Sherlock, please, you can't stay like this."

"Quiet, John. I need absolute silence. Even the slightest whisper of the wind, the slightest shift of air, the slightest and quietest noise could mean the arrival of our suspect. He doesn't know we're here. Because—"

"We're in a position where we would be able to see him but he won't be able to see us. Yes, I even deducted that, Sherlock," John said, rolling his eyes. Sherlock was crouched on the mouth of the cave, eyes on the fields below. He had been in the same position for hours.

"Sherlock," John said again. Sherlock did not answer. John sighed and bent down next to his friend, examining him.

"John," Sherlock warned, not even looking at him.

"Look at your arm, detective," said John, and he lifted up Sherlock's hand. "It's icy cold and hard. It's stiff. Don't you feel like your blood is freezing over? The skin there's nearly all blue. You're shivering. Stop trying to hide it. You're cold."

"Oh, please." Sherlock scoffed. "It is simply my body reacting to the environment. Remember the H.O.U.N.D case? Just my body reacting. Even I didn't want to believe it, or feel it. But my mind is still fixed on the case. My mind isn't preoccupied with something as dull as…feeling _cold._ As long as there's enough blood and warmth to keep my brain functioning, then that's all that matters."

John blinked and gripped gently onto Sherlock's hand. "But—"

"Enough, John."

"Sherlock—"

"John."

The grip tightened.

"Sherlock—!"

"John, the suspect could arrive any second."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, you're freezing! No matter what your mind thinks, your body is _freezing!_ It's unhealthy and extremely dangerous for you!"

"Yes, John, I am aware of your reputation as a doctor. Do you want me to create a blog on all of the medical knowledge in that head of yours, starting with the types of medicine you use to the types of bandages that is most needed in certain cases? I'm sure it would make a lovely read. "

"Fine, fine!" John threw up his hands, dropping Sherlock's. "Have it your way."

There was a silence. The harsh wind blew in their direction, chilling both Sherlock and John to the bone, no matter how much one of them refused to believe that he was cold.

Then a heavy fur coat was dropped on the detective's shoulders.

Sherlock barely flinched. "John, I have told you before, keep this coat for yourself. I do not need it."

"No, Sherlock. You use it."

"John, I insist. You were the one who brought it."

"No. _I_ insist. Just wear it."

"This makes it the fifth time you tried to force this coat on me, along with your scarf. I'll say it again, John. I don't need it."

"Of course you need it, whether you say so or not."

"John—"

_"Just bloody wear it, Sherlock!"_

There was a silence. The two friends stared at each other, eyes locked. John had gotten up to Sherlock's face in his anger, and their faces were now bare inches apart. It wasn't the first time that they had been in such closeness. It seemed like a natural thing to happen every time they got caught up in their emotions.

"No," Sherlock finally said, and he tossed the coat onto John, covering his friend in fur.

"Fine. Fine!" John nearly yowled like a little kitten. He was_ that _frustrated. He wrestled the large coat off of his chest, away from his face. Then he plopped down right next to his friend.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John had roughly dropped the coat around both of their shoulders, covering their backs.

Not a word was spoken.

Sherlock didn't want to admit it, but he felt instantly warm. Not only physically warm: with the fur coat and John's body heat at his side, but also a warmth that touched his heart and spread across his chest and throughout his whole body.

Silence hit them again. John clutched at one end of the fur coat, and slowly but surely, Sherlock's fingers wrapped themselves around the other end.

"You really can be a stubborn ox sometimes," John muttered, eyes fixed on the horizon.

Sherlock then looked at him.

The two friends tugged on their separate ends, pulling the coat and their two bodies closer.

"Same goes for you," the detective then muttered back, causing the doctor to laugh, causing the detective himself to smile and chuckle lightly.

The two friends then spent the next few hours in that position, the cold not daunting them. And, although they did not admit it themselves, they didn't worry that much when the suspect didn't arrive yet. Nor were they disappointed.

They didn't mind.

They could wait.

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_**end**_

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**A/N:** Reviews totally make my day. Seriously, it's like being given a big yummy cookie :') I love to hear what people think!


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